The Red Hand, by Arthur Machen

The Artist of the Pavement

Mr. Phillipps, in spite of all disavowals — in spite of the wall of sense of whose enclosure and
limit he was wont to make his boast — yet felt in his heart profoundly curious as to the case of Sir Thomas Vivian.
Though he kept a brave face for his friend, his reason could not decently resist the conclusion that Dyson had
enunciated, namely, that the whole affair had a look both ugly and mysterious. There was the weapon of a vanished race
that had pierced the great arteries; the red hand, the symbol of a hideous faith, that pointed to the slain man; and
then the tablet which Dyson declared he had expected to find, and had certainly found, bearing the ancient impress of
the hand of malediction, and a legend written beneath in a character compared with which the most antique cuneiform was
a thing of yesterday. Besides all this, there were other points that tortured and perplexed. How to account for the
bare knife found unstained beneath the body? And the hint that the red hand upon the wall must have been drawn by some
one whose life was passed in darkness thrilled him with a suggestion of dim and infinite horror. Hence he was in truth
not a little curious as to what was to come, and some ten days after he had returned the tablet he again visited the
‘mystery-man’, as he privately named his friend.

Arrived in the grave and airy chambers in Great Russell Street, he found the moral atmosphere of the place had been
transformed. All Dyson’s irritation had disappeared, his brow was smoothed with complacency, and he sat at a table by
the window gazing out into the street with an expression of grim enjoyment, a pile of books and papers lying unheeded
before him.

‘Thank you,’ said Phillipps, ‘judging by the flavour of the smoke, I should think it is a little strong. But what on
earth is all this? What are you looking at?’

‘I am on my watch-tower. I assure you that the time seems short while I contemplate this agreeable street and the
classic grace of the Museum portico.’

‘Your capacity for nonsense is amazing,’ replied Phillipps, ‘but have you succeeded in deciphering the tablet? It
interests me.’

‘I have not paid much attention to the tablet recently,’ said Dyson. ‘I believe the spiral character may wait.’

‘Really! And how about the Vivian murder?’

‘Ah, you do take an interest in that case? Well, after all, we cannot deny that it was a queer business. But is not
“murder” rather a coarse word? It smacks a little, surely, of the police poster. Perhaps I am a trifle decadent, but I
cannot help believing in the splendid word; “sacrifice”, for example, is surely far finer than “murder”.’

‘I am all in the dark,’ said Phillipps. ‘I cannot even imagine by what track you are moving in this labyrinth.’

‘I think that before very long the whole matter will be a good deal clearer for us both, but I doubt whether you
will like hearing the story.’

Dyson lit his pipe afresh and leant back, not relaxing, however, in his scrutiny of the street. After a somewhat
lengthy pause, he startled Phillipps by a loud breath of relief as he rose from the chair by the window and began to
pace the floor.

‘It’s over for the day,’ he said, ‘and, after all, one gets a little tired.’

Phillipps looked with inquiry into the street. The evening was darkening, and the pile of the Museum was beginning
to loom indistinct before the lighting of the lamps, but the pavements were thronged and busy. The artist in chalks
across the way was gathering together his materials, and blurring all the brilliance of his designs, and a little lower
down there was the clang of shutters being placed in position. Phillipps could see nothing to justify Mr. Dyson’s
sudden abandonment of his attitude of surveillance, and grew a little irritated by all these thorny enigmas.

‘Do you know, Phillipps,’ said Dyson, as he strolled at ease up and down the room, ‘I will tell you how I work. I go
upon the theory of improbability. The theory is unknown to you? I will explain. Suppose I stand on the steps of St.
Paul’s and look out for a blind man lame of the left leg to pass me, it is evidently highly improbable that I shall see
such a person by waiting for an hour. If I wait two hours the improbability is diminished, but is still enormous, and a
watch of a whole day would give little expectation of success. But suppose I take up the same position day after day,
and week after week, don’t you perceive that the improbability is lessening constantly — growing smaller day after day.
Don’t you see that two lines which are not parallel are gradually approaching one another, drawing nearer and nearer to
a point of meeting, till at last they do meet, and improbability has vanished altogether. That is how I found the black
tablet: I acted on the theory of improbability. It is the only scientific principle I know of which can enable one to
pick out an unknown man from amongst five million.’

‘And you expect to find the interpreter of the black tablet by this method?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And the murderer of Sir Thomas Vivian also?’

‘Yes, I expect to lay my hands on the person concerned in the death of Sir Thomas Vivian in exactly the same
way.’

The rest of the evening after Phillipps had left was devoted by Dyson to sauntering in the streets, and afterwards,
when the night grew late, to his literary labours, or the chase of the phrase, as he called it. The next morning the
station by the window was again resumed. His meals were brought to him at the table, and he ate with his eyes on the
street. With briefest intervals, snatched reluctantly from time to time, he persisted in his survey throughout the day,
and only at dusk, when the shutters were put up and the ‘screever’ ruthlessly deleted all his labour of the day, just
before the gas-lamps began to star the shadows, did he feel at liberty to quit his post. Day after day this ceaseless
glance upon the street continued, till the landlady grew puzzled and aghast at such a profitless pertinacity.

But at last, one evening, when the play of lights and shadows was scarce beginning, and the clear cloudless air left
all distinct and shining, there came the moment. A man of middle age, bearded and bowed, with a touch of grey about the
ears, was strolling slowly along the northern pavement of Great Russell Street from the eastern end. He looked up at
the Museum as he went by, and then glanced involuntarily at the art of the ‘screever’, and at the artist himself, who
sat beside his pictures, hat in hand. The man with the beard stood still an instant, swaying slightly to and fro as if
in thought, and Dyson saw his fists shut tight, and his back quivering, and the one side of his face in view twitched
and grew contorted with the indescribable torment of approaching epilepsy. Dyson drew a soft hat from his pocket, and
dashed the door open, taking the stair with a run.

When he reached the street, the person he had seen so agitated had turned about, and, regardless of observation, was
racing wildly towards Bloomsbury Square, with his back to his former course. Mr. Dyson went up to the artist of the
pavement and gave him some money, observing quietly, ‘You needn’t trouble to draw that thing again.’

Then he, too, turned about, and strolled idly down the street in the opposite direction to that taken by the
fugitive. So the distance between Dyson and the man with the bowed head grew steadily greater.